Matariki Book Reviews by Chloe Blades

Italian Coastal by Amber Guinness (Thames and Hudson, $65)

Someone once said they took a cookbook to bed to read, which I thought was weird. But now I get it, it makes total sense to take Amber Guinness’s to bed. Last year for Dispatch I reviewed her first cookbook, A Seat at the Table, where I detailed with awe the beauty of its pages and the ease of the recipes. Now Guinness returns with Italian Coastal, arguably even more beautiful as it ventures down the length of Italy’s coastline from Toscana to Palermo via the Amalfi Coast and Salina. The storytelling that runs parallel to every recipe is so delicious to read that it sucks you in.“Maurizia’s Potato, Olive and Caper Salad,” for example, tells a story of Maurizia, a fifth-generation caper farmer and her farm in the bay of Pollara. Have a dinner party, set the menu using one of Guinness’s examples, and drink limoncello while enlightening your guests with the origins of the recipe (a daring mum from Campania travels to Norfolk, England with smuggled ethanol in her children’s suitcases to make limoncello for her friends). I can also vouch for the anchovy linguine, and the zucchini, parmesan pasta, which are simple, delicious additions to the household menu. 

Sociopath by Patric Gagne (Bluebird, $40)

What do you imagine when you hear the word sociopath? Probably Donald Trump. But whatever image you have in your mind it isn’t going to look like Patric Gagne. There’s already controversy surrounding her memoir on being what she calls a “twenty-first century sociopath,” mainly on her accreditation as a Dr of psychology because she’s never had any peer reviewed research published. And because real Drs don’t use the word sociopath anymore, they use Anti-social Personality Disorder. But that’s not a very catchy book title, is it? She admits that one doesn't need to be Freud to work out why she went down the path of psychology… and I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt because her memoir is a page-turner. She identifies as a criminal who’s never been caught and describes what life living without regret, remorse and guilt is like. She knew from the age of seven that she was different when she felt nothing after her beloved pet ferret died and her sister sobbed, or when she stabbed a pencil into the side of her school friend’s head. And because she felt nothing she did ‘bad’ things in order to feel something. But she asks, often, “what if the bad parts of my personality weren’t bad at all. What if they were simply different?” It’s an interesting read, one to consume over a long weekend. 

Molly by Blake Butler (Archway Editions, $44)

The New Yorker wrote an article about Blake Butler’s biography of his wife’s suicide titled, ‘Can A Memoir Say Too Much?’ While reading about the intricacies of a deceased poet’s inner turmoil and how she shot herself weeks before her 40th, I asked the same thing. But quickly decided that it couldn’t - it’s the very art of the memoir. There is no thought, decision, behaviour, characteristic or mistake left untouched and you feel the profound complexities of love, jealousy, depression and every other complicated facet of the human psyche. Molly Brodak is penned as a woman with “unpredictable intensity”, someone who takes pride only in her teaching and, contrary to her many other accolades, openly told Butler how she doesn’t want to be a person anymore. Her love for Butler was declared on their first meeting after he picked her up from jail, and what Butler now describes as abuse ensued. He had his suspicions about her infidelity and after she died he had his suspicions confirmed in her inbox. It’s interesting to read a version of a life that a dead woman can’t attest to, but in her suicide note she asks Butler not to follow her but instead to make art. And that’s very much what he has done, including within it confronting photographs of Molly making the experience of reading this memoir a haunting and all-consuming one. If you’re utterly compelled by the inner workings of the mind this is a memoir for you.

Home by Patricia Hegarty and Britta Teckentrup (Little Tiger, $17)

Enjoying the company of small children this long weekend? The only entertainment you really need for that trip to your bach is a beautiful book. Usually, the more beautiful and artistically curated the book the less interested my three year old son is, but that doesn’t apply to Home. Just like the beloved Julia Donaldson classics such as The Gruffalo this story has a catchy, easy-reading rhythm. It bounces along with the bear cub as he weaves through the forest of animals and their homes, venturing and looking up to see an owl high in her tree and squirrels gathering leaves to build a drey. He spots beavers building a home from sticks and salmon heading in from the shore. There are rabbit warrens creating a maze of tunnels underground and wolves in their packs on the prowl. Finally winter sets in and the bear cub goes to sleep. It’s boldly illustrated, bringing nothing but joy and excitement to even a three month old (tried and tested). There is so much to unpack in the background that it makes for a great game of 'what can you see,’ and if your young one is as enthusiastic about animals as mine is then they'll be counting bats, trees and birds until they’ve spotted every single one over and over and over again.